As a warm blanket of thick magnolia air descends over the Land of Elvis, carrying with it, the sweet, yet pungent fragrance of boiling peanuts, the locals gather on their porches, burping their sweet tea and sharing their goomees as they closely examine the mundane events of daily life... looking closer than any healthy person should.
The Hook-Up
The Year of the Uterus
Amputation: The Final Healing
The Reunion
The Superstore
The Carnival
The Code
The Twists Of Fate
The Aging Effect
A Visit From The Devil
The Nudie Bar
The Holidays
The Nude Beach
The Super Heroes
The Lesson
The Death Of Romance
The Honey-Do List
The Friend
The Checkup
The Shopping Trip
The Mall
The Handyman
The Laundromat
I recently checked in on an online dating service as, sort of a, sociological experiment. I registered as “Stumpy the Amputee” just to see what sort of reaction I would get. My sense of humor is not for everyone. Unfortunately, the form they give you to fill was too long and I bailed out in the middle of it. Maybe I lost my nerve a little too. However, I was now privy to the ads by those women looking for love, and I find them very interesting indeed. I get 10-12 of them e-mailed to me everyday. Most are divorced. No surprise there. The overriding theme seems to be, “I was married to that rat bastard for too many years, the kids are gone, and I’m now going to jump naked into a fountain... after midnight... in Acapulco.” I’m not sure you can recover those lost years of youthful wild abandon, but I get the feeling they may kill a few guys while trying.
I am always aware that each picture they offer is showing how THEY want to be perceived. Of course, they wouldn’t post a bad shot of themselves! Neither would I. Looking over all the pics, you see a lot of halter-tops... with cleavage. They’re water skiing. They’re at a party. They’re curled up with their pets. They’re rock climbing. The message I get is that these women are ready to party and you had better take your vitamins. I sometimes wonder what the reaction to “Stumpy the Amputee” would have been if I had gone all the way with my experiment. Probably like finding a roach in your creamed corn.
However, I now know what women want; at least women my age. That means this whole experience was well worth it, because I have always wanted to know what women want. I guess that’s why I’ve burned up so much energy and money over the years in pursuit of those sweet, blushing flowers. What the hell do they want? Here is what I’ve learned:
Women like walking. They want to walk. Now. Preferably on a beach. They even like walking in the rain, which surprises me. I always thought that rain did weird things to a woman’s hair.
They want a totally honest man. Is there such a thing? I’m guessing these hardened veterans of the Gender Wars have had a bellyful of lying, and will no longer stand for it. This is very freeing for a man, because now we can just say anything: “No, I hate going on goddamn picnics.” “No, your hair looked much better before you cut it.” “I sure would like to have sex with another woman.” “My ex-wife made much better lasagna than this.” This total honesty thing could really be interesting.
They want to learn to dance Salsa. Or was it eating salsa? Many of them want to Tango. Who knew of their secret love for Latin culture?
They want to go to Europe. Especially Italy. I think it’s an “Under The Tuscan Sun” fantasy. I’d love to go to Italy too, but my curiosity about their vineyards is somewhat less than my curiosity about their availability of handicapped restrooms. I’m guessing the Americans With Disabilities Act may not reach to Italy.
They want lots of affection. Kissing, touching, holding hands, rubbing, scratching, massaging, whispering, warm this, and warm that. Curiously, not one ad mentioned that they wanted to “Take Johnny one-eye to the optometrist.” Regardless, just reading between the lines, I’m thinking these women are cocked and ready to fire. Again, you’d better pick up those vitamins.
They want weekend getaways, curling up with a good book, friendship, spicy food, dining out, and climbing the steps of the Parthenon.
I guess what I’ve really learned is that it was a jungle out there in my twenties and it’s still a jungle. I think I may go back and finish filling out that questionnaire. I now know what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a woman who really wants to push a wheelchair a long way. Preferably on a beach.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
“We promise to decrease the pull of gravity by 30% within our first term!”
It seems that even physical laws are now on the table. What an election year, eh? A few decades ago, we had separate water fountains for blacks and whites and now, we’re on the verge of electing a black man to the nation’s highest office. By God, maybe the Cubs will win the World Series after all! The irony of it all, is that Barack Obama has been criticized for not being “black enough.” Possibly America’s first black President, and he isn’t black enough. What a world, huh? Actually, all of the candidates have suffered the “not enough” criticisms; Obama isn’t black enough (or white enough for those Appalachian voters), McCain isn’t young enough, Biden isn’t “Hillary” enough, and Palin hasn’t enough experience.
For Sarah Palin, it matters not, though, for she has something even more important than experience. She has the same thing that Hillary has. She has what matters most to women voters everywhere this year. She has a uterus.
In this Year Of The Uterus, nothing else matters.
Palin and her well-used uterus are currently on tour throughout the country, answering all your questions (simple stuff like, the meaning of life, is there a God, and any uterine-related questions you may have). Make no mistake about it, she has the confidence. If you doubt it, just hand her a scalpel and she’ll perform any minor surgical procedure you may need and then offer you a tax rebate afterwards.
I dunno. Maybe I’m just getting jaded, but I’ve just about decided that if “Palin-mania” sweeps McCain into the White House, I may give up following politics forever. Elect McCain if you must, but not on the basis of Palin’s uterus... please.
She is hot, I’ll admit. It doesn’t take much imagination to see her letting her hair down, flinging off her glasses and grinding down to “Hot For Teacher.” But when you factor in that irritatingly-clipped, faux-Canadian accent, it may take more imagination than I’ve got, to work up a good sweat over the thought of Sarah Palin in the next “Ladies of Alaska” spread. Sexist? Sure. I’m a guy.
What must Hillary be thinking? She’s spent her life gathering the credentials needed to play with the big boys. She even gritted her teeth and took Bill back. And now, Sarah Palin may be a John McCain coronary away from being our first female President. Ain’t that a bitch?
As always, get out and vote this year. Make some noise! But please, whatever your voting inclination, don’t cast your ballot on the basis of Sarah Palin’s uterus. Hell, she may have it removed before the swearing-in anyway.
But be careful out there. With her past record of truly impressive fertility -- Olympian fertility really -- there’s a real danger that someone at a political rally may brush up against her and wind up as her next Baby Daddy. It may even be you.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
Well, finally! I can wrap up my crazy medical saga of the past year with a long-overdue article... Goomees we call them. Look in the Wasted Wits News section under The Goomee Chronicles and you’ll find the whole lot. As many of you know, a few weeks ago I had my left leg amputated above the knee.
Yep, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
I’m doing okay, but I do want to share some of my experiences with you. I’ll spare you all the mundane details and instead, sum it all up as succinctly as possible. During the past year, I spent over two months in the hospital and a month in a nursing home. I endured repeated infections. I had severe nerve damage in the left leg, which rendered it virtually useless and eventually, on September 13, I became deficient in the Leg Department to the tune of... one. What follows are my observations on different aspects of the whole experience. All my life, I’ve used humor as a soothing salve whenever all hell seems to be breaking loose and I see no reason to change now. For added readability, I will break it down into sections. Please enjoy!
The Diagnosis
Blood clots. Who would ever have thought that those nasty little red corpuscles would ever turn on me? A year ago, a shower of the little buggers interrupted my Friday mid-October evening, when they found 5-star lodging in my lungs and in my left leg. Breathing -- which I’ll admit I’ve always sort of taken for granted -- now had become as difficult as water skiing. “JUST RELAAAAAX AND CONCENTRATE ON YOUR BREATHING, MR. TILLIS. Put the tips of your skis out of the water and just let the boat pull you up!!! It’s easy!!” Yeah, kiss my ass.
Riding in the back of the ambulance, the increasingly worried tone of the attendants began to concern me. “Could be a heart attack or a pulmonary embolism. His oxygen level is really low.”
My left leg had become completely numb and hurt like a mutha. I now know what childbirth is like.
In the St. Augustine ER, There was a lot of activity around me while I worried only about the basics; breathe, breathe, breathe. My vital signs were worsening and, for the first time, I began to contemplate the possible worst-case outcome of this little adventure. Little did I know that this would be the beginning of a life-changing event for me. Dammit, why couldn’t it be winning the lottery?
Twenty-six hours later, I found myself in Gainesville amid another, even more frantic whirlwind of medical activity. It was midnight and a large team of doctors and nurses were hurriedly prepping me for what would turn out to be a four-hour emergency surgery. I signed whatever they threw in front of me and soon... it was lights out.
When I awoke, first thing I did was look down at that leg. Good, it was still there! But it was sliced open like a spiral cut ham. Besides removing a lot of blood clots, and bypassing arteries, they performed a fasciotomy -- see “spiral-cut ham” -- on each side of my calf, and left the wounds open; all part of relieving pressure and saving the leg. I didn’t know it but those fasciotomies would dog me relentlessly over the next year.
The Hospital
Shands Hospital at University of Florida. It’s big. It’s clean. It’s where you want to be when you’re circling the drain. It’s also where the “See David’s Ass Tour” began its long run. The “See David’s Ass Tour” was wildly popular. Complete strangers would just walk in unannounced and ask me, “Mr. Tillis, can I see your bottom?” Being the easygoing guy that I am, I’d just turn over and they would take a look and then move on. Not to brag, but I think they all walked away pretty satisfied.
By the way guys, Shands is chock full of attractive female students. They’re everywhere. In fact, many of them were giving me the eye as they passed. Unfortunately, the eye said, “Look at that poor one-legged son of a bitch.”
The Doctors
Some of the best doctors in the world work at Shands. Remember though, it’s a teaching hospital, so you’re going to have medical residents assigned to your case. You can tell who they are. They’re the ones consulting that “Medicine for Dummies” book in their lab coat pocket as they write orders in your chart. I used to worship doctors. It wasn’t until I started working in the medical field myself that I discovered they weren’t exactly “worship” material... just ambitious over-achievers with the social skills of Tyrannosaurus Rex... most of them anyway. Not my doctor of course.
The Nurses
I loved my nurses. Every doggone one of them. I was married for 20 years to an ICU nurse and I’ve always respected the work they do. They eased my pain, kept me company, got my messages to the doctor... hell, they were so nice, I didn’t even charge them full price for their ticket to the “See David’s Ass” tour. Funny, they all knew before meeting me, that I’m a Respiratory Therapist. Though it had no effect on my situation, they seemed to get a kick out of that. That is, except for Brenda, who introduced herself and then warned me, “David, I’m a new nurse and I don’t really know what I’m doing yet.” I felt so bad for her; I turned over and gave her a free peek.
Nursing takes a special kind of person and it’s a tough job. God bless ‘em all.
I’ve learned a lot in this past, most challenging year of my life. I’ve learned how important my friends and family really are. I’ve learned something about my own ability to endure and persevere. I’ve learned to embrace each day of my life. I’ve learned to not be so stubborn. So, this will be the last I write of my medical issues. To all those who kept me in their thoughts, I only hope one day, that you will have a critical illness so I can return all the kindness you gave to me.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
Okay, here you are with those high school years far behind you, when you get the call; a reunion is being planned. As you head for the nearest mirror, you begin to contemplate this unexpected development. You haven't changed a bit. Or have you? Excitement turns to doubt as you size up that ancient son of a bitch looking back at you.
Back in our school years, few of us knew what the hell was going on. Sure, some of our peers seemed to almost glow with confidence and school spirit. They dated the "untouchables," those girls that we lusted after but could never have. Well, we could have them, but the restraining order would deny us a second encounter. Most of us spent each school day just trying to fit in. Trying to survive.
And now there's a reunion. Why would you want to revisit that time? You've done quite well since then. You have a nice job and now, unlike in your teen years, "having sex" means that someone else is in the room with you. You've done pretty damn well for yourself, right? So why are your palms so sweaty?
Against your better instincts, you decide to go, and you bring your best buddy, who also was your best buddy back in the day. Suddenly you're seventeen again, minus the acne. Hey, there are some hot-looking chicks here! You're stunned to see Cindy, Chris, Linda, and Teresa smoking and slamming down White Russians like fugitives from Betty Ford Center. Some look like they barely survived a hair crimping accident. Holy crap, what happened to Vickie? She’s the dogface that you used to mercilessly tease, with taunts of "Wooly Booger, Wooly Booger," now she looks... amazing. Guess you blew that one. You and your buddy spend the rest of the evening avoiding her. Carrie, that blushing flower from English class, is showing full-fledged nipple as she bends over your table, asking for a light for her cigar. There's a lot of obnoxious whooping and hollering and that goddamn Electric Slide dance.
Of course, you see a lot of your old buddies there, most of who seem to be in the banking business. Many of the husbands -- strangers who probably didn't want to be there in the first place -- sourly stand around getting pickled. Some have far too many buttons unbuttoned on their shirt.
Suddenly, in the blink of an eye... it's over.
What did you learn? You learned that you're not much different from everyone else. Time has beat the shit out of many of us...some did well, and some fell through the cracks. You learned that the "chosen ones" from high school didn't necessarily set the world on fire; and that some of the ugly ducklings grew into swans. You also learned that, while you'd never want to repeat those years, there WAS something special about them. We were all about potential.
Now, there are rumblings about an elementary school reunion. Is there even such a thing? Hell, we were practically zygotes! This is getting out of hand! Yeah, I guess I'll go. There used to be this cute little girl on the playground. Wonder whatever happened to her?
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
I sew just well enough to reattach buttons and repair tears. I recently discovered that, after about ten years, my "lifetime supply" of thread and needles had finally been depleted. I figured I'd stock up again on my next trip to the grocery store. Wrong. They were out of them. Another grocery store didn't even carry sewing supplies. There's no WAY I was going to Wal-Mart for $1.27 worth of goods, so I decided to try the Dollar Store. In their meager sewing section, they didn't have the color I wanted and had no hand needles at all. (By the way, I just want to go on the record that I am a heterosexual male. I somehow just felt the need to state that.) Even if they'd had my items, I would have wanted to use my debit card and the Dollar Store only takes cash. The first time I tried to use my card there, they almost called the police.
Okay, so now what? Wal-Mart was my only choice. I have an aversion to Wal-Mart. Every time I go there, I feel like a rat in a maze; a rat that can never find the cheese. My irritation always begins with the parking. Is there an army of handicapped patrons just waiting to storm Wal-Mart's doors? If not, then why do they have a hundred spaces near the front, marked off just for them? And why aren't any of them limping when they get out of their car? Are we a country of cripples? I finally find a parking spot far enough away that I've developed a limp as I reach the front door.
There's the "greeter." What a job that is. They occasionally have a cart for you but mostly, it seems they just say hello. They're sort of creepy.
Now I'm in and since I'm here, I may as well get a few grocery items. It seems so wrong to have a grocery in a department store. On my right, there's cottage cheese and butter. Across the aisle to my left are men's underwear and socks. I shudder at the symbiosis. Plus, everything looks so "picked over." It's almost like they just filmed a TV show allowing shoppers 5 minutes to get as much free stuff as they could cram into their carts. I'm telling you, it's a war-zone. Sure, it's the same items I get at my regular grocery, except the expiration date has passed. Could it really be, that not one person chose this can of beans during the past two years? I will not break the streak. I put it back.
As I'm walking around, I notice that I'm shopping shoulder-to-shoulder with the same folks I see at the Driver's License Bureau. That is, there are a lot of tank tops, unshaven faces, and tattoos. I realize I could use a shave myself.
Okay, I guess I'm ready to get my sewing needles, thread and get the hell out of here. I turn toward this vast city of merchandise and realize I should have brought a canteen. This was going to be quite a trek. I plow ahead, going from village to village. There is the Community of Bath Towels. There's Garbage Can Villas. The township of Kitchen Wares... Lamp-Ville... on and on I walk. And no one seems to speak my language. Sure, I get some smiles but they don't respond to my questions. Where the hell are the sewing needles and thread???? I'm guessing I walked about three miles on this trip. I finally did find my sewing supplies (By the way, don't forget before, where I said I'm a heterosexual male) and made my way to the labyrinth that is the checkout section. In a store the size of Madison Square Gardens, you'd think they'd have more than five registers in operation. Of course, they have several "self-serve" registers, but I'm not falling for THAT. I'd like to get home sometime this week. So I get in line. On the way out, that same creepy person who greeted me is now looking at me like I just pulled off a bank robbery. Come on, I dare you to search me, dammit! As I make the pilgrimage back to my car, I realize that suddenly I feel an incredible urge to take a shower. Yes it's true; I've got the stink of Sam Walton all over me.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
Remember the County Fair? In the south, we usually call them a carnival, no matter what size they are. Even the gigantic State Fair is “The Carnival.”
If you’re like me, the memories of past carnivals are almost visceral. You remember the sounds. You remember the smells. Most of all, you remember the carnival ride operators. I believe, in my heart, that the killer in every “blood and guts” film ever made was probably a carnival ride operator at some point in his life. You remember the carnival ride operator don’t you? To walk past these guys, arm in arm, with your cute girlfriend… well, it’s like asking her to stroll into a lion’s den wearing a pork-chop suit.
“Hey Baby!” Just keep walking. “C’mon baby, I’ll give ya a free ride!” Keep walking. “You know you want it, Honey!” Look straight ahead.
Thankfully, my girlfriends never seemed to be attracted to unshaven alcoholics with two teeth.
A carnival is a great place for a first date, but be careful… there IS no dignified way to eat cotton candy. If you’re feeling frisky, you might even try to impress her by winning her a free 35-dollar stuffed St. Bernard. That’s 35 dollars in quarters… after taking on that bastard ring-toss guy or softball-throw guy. The games are rigged and he knows it! He’s making you look like a chump and there’s nothing you can do about it. Move on with your “free” stuffed animal.
Even in the middle of the huge crowds at the carnival, if you want some “alone” time with your girl, you can find it on the Ferris Wheel. The giant wheel can be a great opportunity for a serious make-out session. Unfortunately, if you’re married, it will give your spouse a period of no-escape, interruption-free bitching time.
Even if you’re not much into the rides, I’ll guarantee you; the food is probably worth the price of admission. Oh, I know it’s not gourmet fare, but the smell of sizzling sausage, onions, peppers, corn dogs, meat-on-a-stick, cotton candy… well; it can drive a man crazy. It’s not the healthiest food on the planet. As a matter of fact, I’ve always felt that an enterprising Cardiologist would do very well by offering EKG’s between the funnel cake booth and the sausage stand. Just be sure to pack plenty of anti-acid, and, for God’s Sake, race straight to your car if you feel or hear your bowels beginning to turn on you. Those Port-O-Johns would make an excellent test of will on Fear Factor.
For some reason, I’ve always loved walking around the livestock area, though I’m always startled by the odors emanating from there. What must a farm smell like?
Hey, is that The Captain and Tennille!!?! What the hell are they doing here? If you ever wonder the whereabouts of your favorite musical act from 30 years ago… they start playing at 8 o’clock over near the bumper cars.
The Carnival. Some of the best times of our youth were spent there. Yet, as adults, we silently vow that we’ll never go again. Go figure.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
There is a brotherhood among guys. It begins in puberty and it ends... well, I’m not really sure when it ends. It may never end. It has nothing to do with sports, or camping, or hunting, or any of the other “manly” pursuits you might think of. It has more to do with biological urges than with hobbies or camaraderie. It has everything to do with hormones. It has everything to do with friendship. It is The Code.
The Code is not taught to us. It’s really not even discussed among us guys. We all just innately KNOW what The Code is all about. It’s sort of like when a snake is hatched and, immediately, it is already a hunting machine. It needs no lessons and neither do we. Some women will say that the analogy between snake and man is all too appropriate.
I’m guessing The Code has been with us for thousands of years. No matter how large or small our cranial vault, our ancestors always understood The Code. Ancient cave art has verified this. Check it out. It’s true. Any guy reading this already knows what I’m talking about. A woman reading this may not know, and if she does know…well, that says more about her than about us.
The Code is simple. The Code is this:
A guy will do whatever it takes to help his buddy get laid.
That’s it. When I say, “Whatever it takes,” I really mean it.
You’ve seen the beer commercials about the guy being the “Wingman” for his buddy. That’s The Code. If your buddy wants to date a gorgeous girl who will ONLY go out with him if her four hundred pound cousin with the glass eye and wooden leg can go--guess who’s going to be staring into that glass eye all evening? You are. You’ll do it for your buddy. It’s The Code.
If you’re all set to be the best man at your best friend’s wedding and, on the day of the wedding, you have the chance to go out of town and get laid, your friend will send you off with his blessings and he’ll find another best man. It’s The Code.
If you and your buddy are at a party twenty miles from home and your buddy hooks up, but needs to take the car, leaving you stranded…you’ll gladly hitchhike home. It’s The Code.
The Code says that says if there's any chance your buddy might get laid tonight, then you will voluntarily sleep on asphalt in a cold driving rain, in order to give him the necessary space.
By revealing this, I hope I haven’t violated some sacred trust within my brotherhood, as a magician telling the secrets of his trade would spoil it for the other magicians. Anyway, I doubt if revealing these Secrets Of The Universe to the women of the world will change a doggone thing. The Code means nothing to them and, by tomorrow morning, they’ll probably have forgotten all about it. They’ll be much too busy with their usual mission in life: making us dive through flaming hoops like circus animals.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
Are you more careful on Friday 13th?
Do you avoid walking under a ladder?
Do you avoid black cats?
Do you avoid biting your toenails on a weekday?
If you answered “yes” to any of those, you may be neurotic as all hell… and may also have a mouthful of toes on the weekends.
I know, in my heart, that superstitions are bogus. I don’t believe in luck or fate. Or do I? Fate. Ahh, THERE’S where things get a little sticky. It makes us feel better to think that; maybe, there is a plan for our lives. “Maybe I’ll get on a lucky streak.” “If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.” “If it’s our time, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Then there’s my favorite: the concept of a “soul mate.” Out there in the universe, God has stayed up all night to find the perfect person for you to spend forever with. You’d better not get the 30-year mortgage though, because “forever” may only be a few years. Then, your soul mate could be throwing you under the wheels of a bus in order to be with her new soul mate--the bus driver. Is it really possible to find TWO soul mates in one lifetime in this great big world? What are the odds?
I have a friend who believes in NONE of it. No fate. No luck. No superstitions of any kind. No God. Logic is his “higher power.” You might imagine that he could suck the joy right out of a room, but he’s actually one of the more sociable, funny people I know. He’s probably in better emotional shape than most of us. He’s free.
And me? Well, I go back and forth. I have the courage of my indecision. I like to believe in luck. It’s sort of fun. I might get lucky and win the lottery. Today may be my lucky day. By God, if I drop the ball, Lady Luck will help me pick it up and carry it. Strange thing about luck though… the harder you work, the luckier you get.
Did you know that if you die in an Intensive Care Unit, there’s every chance that the nurse will open the window to allow your soul to fly free? It’s true. Nurses are a superstitious lot. Of course my friend, The Logical One, would ask, “Can’t a soul travel through glass?” “If the nurse has to run to the john, will the soul just hang out and watch Jerry Springer until she returns to set it free?” Logic and superstition are poor bed partners. Logic snores and steals the covers.
Nurses also promote another favorite superstition; one that many of us hear and believe. I’m talking about “people die in threes.” What is God’s fascination with the number “3”? Adam and Eve were two. The Deadly Sins were seven. There weren’t three of each kind on the Ark. What is it about “3” that pisses the Big Man off? Most any town in America will have three people dying in the same week. Does that count? What’s the time interval needed, for the law to apply? Does it apply more to celebrities? Has Paul Newman been hiding in an underground bunker since Shelley Winters recently died? Are people also born in threes? The mind reels.
“Hey, good luck on that test.” “I didn’t get the job, so I guess I wasn’t supposed to get it.” “Hey, you’d better throw salt over your shoulder!” “Don’t open that umbrella in here!” “You’d better knock on wood.” “Hey, there’s a four-leaf clover!”
I guess we’ve settled nothing here. Those that believe will continue to do so and those that don’t, will continue to make fun of them.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
Well, it’s happening. We knew it but still didn’t quite believe it. We’re gonna get old. And we’re gonna die. This aging thing is strange. The changes are somewhat subtle, though when you run into an old acquaintance you haven’t seen in twenty years, it’s a very unsettling experience when they look at you like you’re a Martian. Getting older is sort of like riding around in a beat-up 1968 Chevy Impala with Italian leather seats and a killer stereo system. The inside is very hip, but the outside, well…
One of the most fascinating examples of aging is watching our pop culture heroes, as THEY grow old. I remember Pete Townsend, back in the day, writing, “Hope I die ‘fore I get old…talkin’ ‘bout my generation…” He was so young and idealistic. So pissed off. Now, you’re likely to read of Pete spending his next holiday at a Mexican anti-aging clinic, looking for the Fountain Of Youth. Suddenly, dying before he gets old doesn’t sound quite so romantic. I guess anger is a great catalyst for creativity, judging by Pete’s slowed creative output since he realized how wonderful it feels to have regular bowel movements, or a really great-fitting pair of shoes. It’s hard to get too angry if you have those two items going for you. It makes me chuckle when I see the “angry” bands out there these days. With their pissed off demeanor, spitting into the crowd, even Green Day will, at some point, become Grey Day.
Look at some of our other heroes. Who knew that Eric Clapton, at the epicenter of vast cultural explosion, with all of his crazy hairstyles—he seemed to look different in every picture---and firing those ferociously loud, bluesy chops, would one day resemble a gentlemanly college professor quietly grading papers on a Saturday morning? This is no knock on Slowhand…. the man’s a survivor and we’re glad he’s still here, but it does give one pause for thought. McCartney is still rocking out, with only a little hair coloring to mask the years. Sting seems to be defying Father Time. Maybe there really IS something to this tantric Yoga thing. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards seem to have been pickled at some point, but, God bless ‘em, they’re out there cranking it up. Then there’s Ginger Baker, who looked sixty years old when he was only twenty-five. How have these guys made it through the drugged-out sixties and seventies, emerging seemingly in one piece? When you consider all they put their bodies through, how can we possibly be afraid of a little bacon and eggs for breakfast? Not to mention the artificial sweetener in our caffeine-laden coffee.
Take my main man, Michael McDonald... he’s aging gracefully. He’s never even colored his hair. He’s cool and he seems to be comfortable in his own skin. Then, on the other side of the coin, there’s Barry Manilow, who I saw on TV the other day. The guy will be sixty this year, yet his face is as smooth and wrinkle-free as a Girl Scout’s knee, and he has this constant “surprised” expression on his face. No doubt, he spent a Weekend In New England at a surgical clinic.
“Hope I die ‘fore I get old.”
Pete Townsend has to be wondering now, what the hell he was thinking when he wrote My Generation. Hey, we’re all young and dumb at some point in our lives. Most of us want all we can get. May he live to be a hundred.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
My wife and I decided to drive over to Miami to visit "Santa's Enchanted Forest", a kitschy perennial carnival featuring millions of lights in the trees along the main path. We enjoyed all the sites, sounds and most of the smells. Carnival food has been both a bane and a feature for me since I can remember, so part of the plan was to satisfy our urges for some of our favorite forbidden foods. The fat-supersaturated foot-long corn dog was probably not a good idea. Nor the fully-loaded one-pound steak-and-cheese sandwich. Nor the butter-drenched fresh corn-on-the-cob. Nor the large order of grease-covered french fries, everything washed down by copious amounts of cokes served from soda fountains hooked up to garden hoses...
My first sign of pending doom began as a kick-in-the-gut cramp that let me know the devil would be knocking at my door tonight. An immediate cold-sweat broke out on my worried face, as I hurried my pace and focused on the memory of the closest public toilet. I was visited twice more by breath-taking abdomen spasms. The next one felt like a panicked wild boar was dashing about in my bowels looking for an exit; the last one made me stop walking, focus glassy-eyed on the nearest winking light display, and breathe in a pant-puff pattern as if I were about to give birth in public without even the aid of a midwife.
Finally arriving at the tiny trailor-portajohn, I climbed the steep stairs holding onto the handrail like a weak-kneed feeble codger. The cramped quarters inside, combined with the un-natural lean and bouncing of the axle-sprung tow-behind trailer john added both claustrophobia and seasickness to an otherwise unbearable situation. Finding a microscopic stall available, I locked and unloaded. The turtle was demanding to be let out, though apparently it had died 6 days earlier during its trip through me. The commode was smaller than an airliner's and was the "travel" type that required you to pull up on the floor-level handle to trickle water into the bowl before pushing down on the same lever to uncork the bottom and allow the contents to be released.
With the first grogan-laden geyser blast, had I been orbiting the earth in zero-gee, I would have been rocketed off the bowl to bounce around the cockpit with the force of an Apollo mission Saturn 5 booster. The fact that I hadn't had time to inspect the toilet seat in the dim light and discovered only by sitting that there had been a complete even coat of clear fluid on its upper surface actually worked to my advantage in that it helped to form a sort of suction gasket which kept my ass glued to the stool. My second beef-stew spew had needle-accurate pressure-cleaner abilities that immediately vaporized on contact with the waterless commode bottom sending a tear-inducing crowd-controlling waft of fumes that displaced all air in the tiny trailer. I began to notice a lot less activity outside of my cubicle. Either the stench was so overpowering that no one could stand to be in the same area, or they were actually dropping like flies with their flies still open, waiting to be swept away by the next custodial shift. After several more volleys I realized that I was alone in the entire trailer. Finally someone came in simultaneously spraying air freshener and anti-bacterial surface cleaner in the general direction of my stall while audibly gagging in disbelief. With the demons temporarily calmed, I cleaned up as best as possible. I knew I'd have to face the crowd upon exit, but I had the survivable knowledge that I was from out of town and no one knew me. As I exited, there was a line all the way up the narrow stairs waiting to get in, yet no one had gone in while my stall was occupied. The stares of horror would have made a voyeuristic serial killer proud as he observed unknown his scene of carnage.
But the devil wasn't through with me yet. Driving back we stopped at the next rest area where I went round two. The facilities were nearly virgin by comparison. Although the cramps and force of the gushers were less than round one, the stench had reached a new plateau. I nearly passed out from the overpowering retch until another "patron" entered the stall next to me and actually said, and I'm not making any of this up, he said, "DUDE!?? How about a courtesy flush!!" delivered like Tom Arnold in Austin Powers. Three power flushes later we could both breath again. I exited as a weak and spent contender, unable to even drive. On the way back, I dreamed fitfully of the blissful shower I would enjoy upon arriving at home.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
There is a rite-of-passage that all guys must complete to become a man. I’m not talking about learning to fly fish or beating the old man at arm wrestling. I’m talking about a trip with your buddies to a nudie bar. Once a young man turns 18 years old, he looks around to see how many previously forbidden taboos he can violate and the nudie bar ranks high on the list.
Going to a strip club can be a surreal experience. On the way there, you’re a normal guy, playing the dating games, trying to get to first, second, or third base—and on rare occasions, a home run. But once you pay your ten dollars at the door of the nudie bar, you’ve entered a Bizzaro World where the rules, as you know them, are suspended until you leave. No longer are you limited by your imagination; these girls are fully undressed, they are sweaty and writhing to the music, and you have the keys to the castle---a handful of dead presidents. With enough cash, you’ll have their attention for the entire night.
But this is not really a sexual experience. Oh, it may be for that 55-year-old divorced father of three over there. For him, this is as good as it gets. But, for you and your buddies, this is merely a lark; a boys’ night out full of laughs and good times. You wouldn’t be caught dead with one of these strippers back in your world. You’re better than that. And you’d better just hope your buddy didn’t see you take her phone number.
There’s no alcohol served in this strip club. That would be like throwing gasoline on a campfire. But, a can of Coke will cost you five bucks and you have to keep ‘em coming. You may also get a wicked case of tennis elbow from stuffing dollar bills into that shoelace tied around her waist. Your best buddy, the one with a steady job, treats you to a lap dance. For his twenty-five dollars, you’ll have a live nude girl burning down your house but you’d better keep your hands strictly to yourself or those tank-sized gentlemen in the corner will give you a painful lesson on why you should NOT free Willy.
And then, just like that, it’s over. You’re back out in the fresh air and you’re a man. Sort of. Certainly, you’re a poorer man. And it’s the first time in your life you’ve ever drank thirty dollars worth of Coca Cola in one evening.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
I love holidays. One of my philosophical heroes, Kermit The Frog, once said, “Life would pass in a blur if not for holidays.” That amiable amphibian was so right. Holidays mean something different for all of us. Some find them a reason to gather with family; some do all they can to avoid family. What is a holiday? Some of them are obvious, but others really don’t fit the criteria, like Valentine’s Day. Yet, Valentine’s Day is somehow included. Let’s take a stroll through a typical year of holidays. When do they start? For me, February 14th begins the long stretch of “special days.”
Now, here is a special day that has the potential of being nothing less than a “relationship killer.” You guys know that I’m talking about Valentine’s Day. Who invented this pressure cooker? For women, it is a day to celebrate love in all its glory. For a man, it’s simply the longest day of the year and it can’t end soon enough. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve enjoyed many wonderful Valentine’s Days. But there is no denying that it requires effort, creativity, cash…and boatloads of charm. As a matter of fact, if we had to keep up that level of charm for a whole year, we’d be living in a cardiac unit. Some guys stop at the grocery on the way home from work, buy a box of candy, buy a card, fill it out in the parking lot, and it’s a done deal. Other guys make dinner reservations, and prepare the bedroom with silk sheets, candles, and rose pedals everywhere until it begins to resemble a sacrificial alter. Those guys are the smart ones and they know what they’re doing. The guys I feel sorry for are the ones who are in a new relationship…so new that they haven’t a clue as to how to proceed. Ignore Valentine’s Day and you can kiss her goodbye. Underplaying it may have the same result. Going overboard could be a disaster. At ease, soldier; it’ll all be over in the morning.
Easter, for me, is not really a big deal since I’m not very religious. Still, it is a holiday, and I enjoy it. For Christians, it’s one of the most meaningful days of the year and that’s understandable. So how did such a meaningful day evolve into stuffing yourself with chocolate rabbits? I could swear, one time as a kid in church, I heard the Pastor say “…He is risen. Now let’s go find those doggone eggs!”
Memorial Day remembers those fallen in battle. To a kid, it sort of unofficially signifies the beginning of summer. That means watermelon and lots of it…and trying to survive those last few agonizingly slow days of the school year.
Independence Day is probably the highlight of the summer. Parties, music, fireworks, barbeque, no school….what’s not to love about it? And after it’s over, there’s still plenty of summer left! Uncle Johnny always provides the entertainment, and I’m telling you, everyone is absolutely riveted. After Uncle Johnny has had a few too many to drink, he begins to hold the Roman Candles by hand, covering himself in a shower of sparks. It’s the best show in town.
Labor Day is more loved by the adults than by the kids. The kids are in a massive depression from the shock of starting back to school, and the adults are thrilled for the same reason. For me, the depression of starting back to school was somewhat softened by my birthday, which always falls around Labor Day. There’s barbeque, parties…it’s sort of like Independence Day without Uncle Johnny.
Halloween is probably on the lowest rung of the “holiday” ladder--at least as far as the adults are concerned. Of course, kids love it. “You mean if I wear this outfit and go from house to house, they’ll give me free candy? What a racket this is!” My sister and I used to get mountains of candy, filling up our pillowcases. We’d empty it all onto the floor into two piles, hers and mine. My parents would then carefully go over each piece…eating their weight in M & M’s along the way as they checked our candy for signs of tampering. Once they were done, my sister and I were like Aardvarks ravaging a termite mound. And even though we each now had a year’s supply of candy, if I took a Milky Way bar from my sister’s pile, she screamed bloody murder. Hell hath no fury like a woman on a sugar high.
Now we’re heading into the heart of the holiday season. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year. It forecasts the coming colder weather, and the food and cozy family moments make it a pure and satisfying pleasure. It other words, it has all the warm fuzzies of Christmas, but without the gift buying frenzy. It’s also a time for families to bury the hatchet…hopefully not into each other’s forehead. Basically, you overeat as much fattening food as you can hold, then you and the rest of the group, retire to the living room to watch football until you all pass out from the heavy gravy. It’s essentially one giant gang nap. Then, upon awakening, what do you do? You go back for more food, of course. Who knew our stomachs had this kind of holding capacity? If we ate like this every day, by the following Thanksgiving, we’d have to wash ourselves with a rag tied to a stick.
Christmas, for years, was always my favorite holiday. Somewhere along the way, after one too many trips to the mall, I switched my allegiance to Thanksgiving. I still love it though, and it’s still my second favorite holiday, but these days I’m trying to tone it down and not become a part of the frenzied mob waiting in line to buy that T.V. at half price. Peace on Earth and goodwill toward men is what I get out of it. Of course, to kids, it’s all about the presents. You can get them 25 gifts each, covering the floor so there’s not even an inch of visible carpet, and after they’ve opened everything, they’ll utter those words that every parent hates: "Is that all?”
The food at Christmas is also spectacular though it doesn’t quite pack the high-powered, high-calorie punch of Thanksgiving. I’m guessing at Christmas, we’ll use only half the amount of toilet paper as during Thanksgiving. I love singing Christmas Carols, but inevitably, when singing in a group, they always begin in a key better suited for Helium addicts. This leaves me singing in a bass voice, which is not my range either, even when wearing boxer shorts. I remember my mother would take down all of our decorations and the tree on Christmas morning---by 10 a.m. you would never even know it was Christmas Day. These days, we leave our tree up through New Years, though I’ll admit, it’s mostly due to laziness.
You remember New Year’s Eve don’t you? When you were young, it was THE best party night of the year. Everyone was in such a good mood, wearing their finest clothes; the ones they probably just received at Christmas. You’d never looked hotter in your life and at the stroke of midnight; you and this gorgeous creature were locked into a passionate kiss that made both your toes curl. Now, if you’re still awake at midnight, you’re likely to be tweezing your ear hair. “Watching the ball drop” now has anatomical implications. On New Year’s Day, you eat from the endless food trough once again. You watch football again. You take another gang nap. Your wallet is now on life support. You’ve done it again. You’ve made it through another year of holidays and you've made a lot of people happy. And the thought of six beautiful long weeks without a “special occasion” is now making you VERY happy.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
The other day I saw an article on Black’s Beach, the well known “clothing is optional” beach near San Diego. It seems that, for those who wish to discard their clothing at Black’s these days, well…the options are fewer than they used to be. I was there in San Diego back in 1977 with some buddies of mine and, once we heard about Black’s beach, well, there was no doubt that we had to go.
My friends and I really weren’t exhibitionists by nature, and, even on the way there, we hadn’t decided if we were going “au natural” or not. Once we arrived, we discovered it was quite a little hike down some pretty steep cliffs to even get to it. Soon, we finally made it down to the beach and came upon a sign that read “Clothing is optional beyond this point.” Like Lewis and Clark, searching for the mythical Northwest Passage, we soldiered on.
In no time, we were walking along Black’s Beach, surrounded by several hundred nude beach goers. Regarding our clothing, we were now at the point of “fight or flight.” After scanning the area, and spotting more than a few nubile young college girls, we quickly realized that we were going to have to leave our shorts on, much to the displeasure of the regular beachgoers there. They sensed that we were there just for the “scenery.” And they were right. We couldn’t help it. If we had walked down that beach in the buff, our “natural urges” would’ve been obvious to all. As it was, these naked sunbathers already hated us for wearing the shorts. I wasn’t going to further anger them by openly displaying my carnal desires. I was twenty-one years old! I’m only human!
And to make matters worse, as we strolled along, filling our eyes with God’s most perfect creations, my buddy accidentally walked over the top of an exquisitely detailed sand sculpture that some guy had obviously been laboring over for hours. It was ruined. Whatever shred of goodwill these people had held for us, was now gone forever. We hastily headed back toward the car.
I only hope the recent “clothing is optional” policy change at Black’s Beach isn’t due to the actions of a bunch of knuckleheads like we were that day.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
I just finished watching the new movie about the Fantastic Four. I loved super heroes when I was a kid and I had a closet full of comic books. Who knew one day, they’d be so valuable? Reading about these special beings with their extraordinary powers was a great fantasy for me and I can’t help but wonder how popular they are with kids today. Sure, Hollywood has discovered them, but, in this video age, do today’s kids read comic books and idolize super heroes? Not like we did, I’m sure. I loved them all but there were about five Super Heroes that, in my opinion, rose above the rest:
1. Superman - Always my favorite. He could do it all! He was super strong, super fast, he could fly, he was invulnerable, he had heat vision, x-ray vision...of course when I got to junior high school, the idea of having x-ray vision took on a whole new meaning for me. Superman, unfortunately, could be hurt by Kryptonite, the Red Sun could remove his power, and he couldn’t see through lead. That was about the extent of his weaknesses. Oh, and he had an unnatural fondness for women who’s initials were LL. Looking back on him now though, I’m struck by what a humorless son of a gun he was. Why didn’t he also have a super sense of humor? Actually, maybe he did, since his complete identity-disguise consisted solely of a pair of glasses.
2. The Flash - The Flash had a great uniform and could attain the speed of light! He could even vibrate his molecules, allowing him to pass through solid objects. Who would win a race between he and Superman? This was an endless argument among my friends and me. With his police background, The Flash was also one of the better problem solvers among the super heroes. Also, he seemed somehow more approachable than any of the rest of them. Rumor has it, he wasn’t much with the ladies. Seems he did EVERYTHING too fast.
3. Spider Man - He’s now become mainstream with the blockbuster movie success and all, but when I was a kid, he was sort of a “poor kid’s” super hero. After all, he could be easily hurt and often was. Spider Man was conflicted on so many different levels…chock full of the angst common to the rest of us mere mortals. But he had the coolest uniform of them all and, even more impressive, he had a great sense of humor. He’d be getting torn limb from limb by some evildoer intent on destroying mankind and there’d be Spidey…just taunting and wisecracking the whole way. Ya gotta love that.
4. Aquaman - I always liked Aquaman and believe me, I took plenty of heat for it. My buddies felt him to be almost useless in a fight, since his power was limited mainly to control of all species of fish and marine mammals. Their logic was: Want to escape the wrath of Aquaman? Hop out of the water. Plus, it’s tough to look like a lean, mean fighting machine when you’re riding a sea horse. Looking back on Aquaman now, I look at his uniform and I’m reminded of Liza Minelli in Vegas. Maybe my friends had a point.
5. Batman - More than any hero, Batman’s legend has remained fully intact and vital, thanks to the interest Hollywood has shown in recent years. Apparently the Caped Crusader was a psychopath of sorts. This never occurred to me when I was a kid. The guy goes to his dungeon, changes into a bat costume and rides all over town. What’s so weird about that? Batman was the cleverest super hero and you just knew, though he was limited by a lack of any real super power, that he’d simply outwit the bad guys. Hollywood likes to probe Batman to discover his psychological motivations. I’m just not interested in that. What really interests me is that none of these super heroes ever seemed to eat or go to the bathroom.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
There is no greater mystery on earth than a pregnant woman. Some of us may think we’ve been around the block a time or two, but NOTHING can prepare a man for the emotional roller coaster ride that living with a pregnant woman provides. I remember when my former wife became pregnant with our first child. She developed an unnatural fondness for red meat and, during her pregnancy, ate about a gazillion hamburgers and steak, with prime rib being her steak of choice. I remember one night in particular, around eight o’clock in the evening; she stated a desire for some prime rib. I thought that was a pretty ridiculous idea and jokingly said something to that effect. That was my mistake, for this was no joking matter. Being a rookie at this husband-of-a-pregnant-woman thing, I had no idea how desperate the situation really was. She HAD to have prime rib and was willing to crawl over my dead body to get it. So, in the interest of world peace (and my own skin), I made a run to a local restaurant and got her some prime rib. It was my first and most important lesson as a father-to-be: “If Mama ain’t happy… ain’t nobody happy.”
One day I accidentally hit a squirrel with the car and, though I felt terrible about it, I drove on. Suddenly I heard a little sobbing sound from the passenger’s seat and saw her crying. I asked, “What’s wrong, Sweetie?” Through the tears she sobbed, “That little squirrel probably thought it was going to be a beautiful day.” It was sort of funny and, right at that moment, I realized this beautiful hormonal creature in the seat next to me was not necessarily the emotionally stable person I married.
Of course, one of the trials that we Guys-With-Pregnant-Wives have to undergo is the Lamaze class. Lamaze is sort of a gestational rite of passage for American couples. I’m not sure how popular it is in other countries but here, it’s serious business.
We men want to be supportive. We want to learn all we can about this momentous turn our lives are about to take. So she and I took our pillow and joined about ten other couples on the floor in a large well-lit room. After finding an empty space, I surveyed my surroundings and found ten positively glowing women accompanied by ten positively miserable men. We men were sort of like fish flopping around on the riverbank trying to make sense of this strange new world we found ourselves in. We’d lost all our bearings and were just trying to survive. But these guys were my brothers and we would get through this together. The women were so comfortable with the situation; they seemed to have been doing this all their lives. Of course later on, during labor, when it came time to coach my wife and show off my newfound expertise, all hell pretty much broke loose. But, as they say, all’s well that ends well.
You young fathers-to-be who think you know it all…you really know nothing. Your first lesson will be: “If Mama ain’t happy… ain’t nobody happy.”
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
Is Romance dead? If it’s not dead, then surely it’s in an iron lung with a feeding tube. My recent observations have led me to believe that there seems to be a scarcity of that subtle electricity that’s generated between a guy and a girl in the early going…that certain look…the touch on the arm…that certain shyness. Those subtleties have been replaced with a guy asking a girl, “Honey, you are smokin’ hot! Have you ever made it with another chick?” And if she’s REALLY hot…she’ll say “of course.” Since when do women play for both teams, yet profess themselves to be heterosexual? When did this happen?
In the 60’s we broke free from the repression of the 50’s and our philosophy became “If it feels good, do it.” We were pretty proud of having fewer hang-ups than our hopelessly repressed parents. In the 70’s, we “did it” as often as we could and we weren’t all that picky about our partner. We basically had two requirements: 1) The girl had to be breathing, and 2) She had to have a pulse. And there was probably a time or two that we would have relaxed at least one of those prerequisites.
But there was a price to pay for all of this “free love.” In the 80’s, with the emergence of AIDS, “free love” was seriously riding the brakes. You could step outside and almost hear the distant sound of millions of zippers closing up shop.
In the 90’s, it seemed the great AIDS scare was beginning to wane a bit and MTV became the new broker for “If it feels good, do it.” The other day I watched a dating show on MTV called “Elimidate,” where the girl is “courted” by four guys and eliminates them one at a time until she’s left with the one she’ll go on the date with. The first guy was eliminated because he got sick on a carnival ride. The girl called him a “little boy who couldn’t take it”…ouch! The second guy was cut because he didn’t want to show her his kissing technique. The third guy was eliminated for kissing her but not using his tongue. The fourth guy was the “winner” and got to go out with this classy example of feminine charm.
But let’s not pull the feeding tube from romance yet. I know some young guys who report of girls being amazed that the car door is opened for them...and liking it. These girls are surprised and happy to receive flowers on a special occasion. These young guys talk about hating girls who dress and act like hookers. Maybe there is hope after all.
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The “Honey-Do List.” It’s sometimes spelled as “Honeydew List” but it’s certainly not sweet, pleasant and refreshing like a melon. The Honey-Do List is nothing less than the most crucial component in a long marriage. You’ll notice I didn’t say “long and happy” marriage, for there’s nothing happy about the Honey-Do. It’s essentially just a man’s chore list, but it’s really much more than that. In a woman’s mind, the Honey-Do List is a reassuring reminder that she is loved and that her husband is willing to do whatever it takes to make her happy. It reminds her that, on any weekend, no matter what plans he’s made, she can still make him jump through flaming hoops like a circus animal. You think that’s too harsh of an assessment? Just try ignoring the Honey-Do List and you’ll quickly learn the meaning of the word “harsh.”
For a man, the Honey-Do List is the link to all he finds pleasurable. Sex, TV, sex, hanging out with his friends, sex, good food…did I mention sex? He knows that, until the Honey-Do List is completed, there will be no joy in the Kingdom. It all goes back to the “If Mama Ain’t Happy” rule. To a newlywed man, this can be a jarring realization and he may try to fight it. But he will lose. And he will be miserable. A veteran married guy sees the list for what it is…a price he must pay for peace.
So, the next time you get your Honey-Do list and you begin to check off the items one-by-one…clean the gutters, clean out the garage, finish putting up that bird feeder, etc…just remember that you aren’t doing this for her. You’re doing it for you. You’re doing it for world peace.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
Dogs have so much power. What other creature on earth can make you stand in the yard, barely dressed, at three o’clock in the morning, in any type of weather? Really, I think all pets have this power, but my focus is more on dogs because I have two of them. We humans accept that our lives are not going to be trouble or worry-free. We expect trouble occasionally, and we’ll deal with it when it comes. But when it comes to our dogs…well, that’s another matter. We don’t want them to worry their sweet little wet noses even a little bit and we will go to any length to insure that they have the best, most worry-free life possible. After all, they ARE Man’s Best Friend.
I used to have a dog with a mysterious skin allergy problem. Of course, that required a special, expensive diet. “Do you take checks?” It required frequent visits to the Vet with mounting bills and no insurance to pay for them. “Let me get my wallet.” It required special shampoos, dips, and treatments…”Do you accept Visa?” There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for this dog, and I did it without regret.
In a sense, dogs are like children. They are innocent and they look to you as the ruler of their universe…but they actually rule yours. Oh, I know they’re just animals, but it’s the rare dog owner that doesn’t treat them like a child. We can’t help it. Of course, there can be a downside to this relationship of devotion. I used to spend those first minutes of the day waiting for my turn in the bathroom. Now I spend it clearing the hair from my throat.
It’s easy to feel a little bit foolish on a walk with your dog. After all, when he feels like making a “deposit” along the way, he’ll just stop and squat right there in front of God and Country. It wouldn’t matter if the President of The United States were in attendance. He doesn’t care, and I can only admire his total lack of inhibition. And, of course there I am, the Ruler of the Universe, plodding along, holding the scooper, picking up after His Royal Majesty.
Yes, dogs are a lot of work, but the payoff is when you return home everyday. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been gone all day or for twenty minutes, your dog will greet you like it’s the Fourth of July, your birthday, and Christmas all rolled into one. No matter what kind of a day I just had, or how big of a jerk people think that I am… my dogs are pretty doggone thrilled to see me. I love that.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
Men hate going to the doctor. We will endure all sorts of aches, pains and fever in order to stay away from that dreaded place. Pay close heed then, because when we do finally go to the doctor, we are REALLY sick.
Women are much more pragmatic than men about most things and, if they aren’t feeling well, they’ll simply make a doctor appointment without compunction. And then, like sailors sitting around bragging about their exploits on the high seas, women will talk about stirrups, cold medical instruments, and vise-grip breast exams…all designed to make us men feel rather silly about our supposedly irrational fear of going to the doctor.
But women do not have to endure the one thing that men hate the most. Yes, I’m talking about “checking the oil.” I’ve become so shell-shocked over this unpleasant procedure that when I see someone putting on a latex glove, I just instinctively cross my legs. Is there no other way to assess the condition of the prostate gland? Who devised this sadistic exam, Joseph Mengele?
The first time I experienced this fiendish digital invasion I was but a babe-in-the-woods. The doctor said, “Ok, now bend over and touch your toes please.” I obeyed, thinking he was probably checking my spinal alignment or something. Boy, was I wrong. I soon became confused. I became disoriented. And after the exam, when the doctor lit up a cigarette, I got the hell out of there.
Now, I’ve had my oil checked more than a few times and, though I hate it with every fiber of my being, I tolerate it when I absolutely have to. After all, it’s better than taking a dirt nap.
Most people choose their doctors very carefully. They’ll ask around about his reputation, study his credentials, and then they’ll make a mature, well-considered decision as to who will be the steward of their health care. Me, I just look for a doctor with small hands.
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return to the Goomee Chronicles
Around 30,000 B.C., the man of the cave left his home to hunt and gather. His thickly muscled frame was well suited for this task and he was proud of his role as “provider” for the family. His wife, after doing the hide-scraping and tidying the cave, settled down with the latest issue of Hairy-People Magazine and waited for the return of her man.
Boy, how times have changed. With the onset of the Industrial Age, man’s role as provider began to take on a different look. Oh, he still provided for his family, but he now worked long hours, toiling in a factory for an hourly wage. The skills he had honed for generations had now deteriorated. No hunting. No gathering. The woman’s role grew. Eventually, it seemed that her selfish lout of a husband was only capable of bringing home money. He couldn’t cook, clean, wash or sew clothes... he couldn’t shop.
And then women decided they were tired of staying home. They shipped the kids off to day-care and began careers. And, driven strictly by the instinct to survive, the man’s skills began to return. He learned to shop.
I go to the supermarket probably 5-6 days a week. I absolutely stink at menu planning. I don’t have a clue as to what’s for dinner until I’m driving home after work. Therefore, I go there almost every day. I don’t enjoy this task, but I just cannot plan ahead to have meat loaf on Wednesday.
Let me take you with me on my daily trip to the supermarket. Consider it a “virtual tour,” if you will.
The market I shop at is like every other large Supermarket you see these days. It’s geared for one-stop shopping. My first stop is always the newspaper rack. I always grab the second paper on the stack. It seems “fresher” than the one on top. On the way to the Produce section, I pass the Deli. There’s that high school kid with the tattoos, who’s always overly friendly and acts like he’s known you forever…while he’s cracking up over his own jokes. In other words, he’s obnoxious. Even when he really IS funny, I always stifle my laughter. I don’t want to encourage him. Occasionally, I’ll get them to make me a couple of sub sandwiches for my son and I. Uh-oh, there’s the lady that’s as slow as syrup in January. If I see her coming to wait on me, I always act like I’m moving on. It takes her 20 minutes to make a sandwich. Sometimes, I’ll wait 20 minutes for someone else to wait on me so I can avoid the lady who takes 20 minutes to make a sandwich. On to the Produce section.
I don’t know why, but I always head to the avocadoes first. I love avocadoes. I’m always looking for them to be on sale, and they rarely are. There’s something about squeezing a good avocado that makes a man feel like a man. I’ll get a sweet onion and maybe some lettuce, though I don’t know why. I love salad, but I hate making a salad. Most of the time, I’ll buy a head of lettuce, put it in the refrigerator, then check on it every now and then for the next week or so, until it turns brown. Then I’ll throw it in the garbage. On to the cheeses.
Is there any reason on earth that we need to have 100 choices when it comes to cheese? America has made some great products, but American cheese is not one of them. Feta cheese thrills me in the way that avocadoes thrill me. I always want to buy some. It would be great on the salad that I’m never going to make. On to the dog food...
As with the cheeses, there are many types of dog food. The difference is, once we dog-owners lock on to a brand of dog food, we become a lifelong, devoted customer. They could almost GIVE us a free bag of another brand and we’d refuse it. I see my brand, Purina One, has now added yogurt. I’m sure my dogs will appreciate that. On to the grocery aisles.
As always, there’s a lady completely engrossed in feeling all of the cans. Her cart is blocking the entire aisle. She is oblivious to my presence. “Ah, excuse me.” No response. Louder, “MA’AM, EXCUSE ME.” Nothing. I go to gently move her cart, when she suddenly comes alive and fixes me with a steely gaze…a “don’t touch my cart” kind of gaze. By the way, she’s there EVERY SINGLE TIME I’M THERE. It’s uncanny. I buy several cans of beans, tomatoes, whatever. Several of them will always be so dented that the can opener won’t work on them, which reduces me to a beaver-like state, “gnawing” at it with any sharp implement I can find. On to the meat section.
This is where tonight’s menu really begins to take shape. What’s on sale? That will probably determine whether we’re eating chicken or pot roast. I decide on pot roast, but I can’t get one because a lady has every single pot roast laid out for her inspection. She’s inspecting them all very carefully. I wonder if she’s the same lady that inspects my underwear? If so, then I’m glad, because she’s obviously a pro in every sense of the word. I pick up a pot roast and see…a pot roast. She picks up one and sees….I have no idea what she sees. I’m not sure she does either. I finally make my move around her right flank and grab one. Judging by the look on her face, it’s EXACTLY the one she had decided on. Maybe I’m qualified to inspect underwear after all. Now that I’m having pot roast tonight, I’ll need to go back to the other side of the store and get some carrots and a few potatoes. There are other things I probably need, but, for those, I’ll wait till tomorrow. On to the checkout.
When I was much younger, I flirted incessantly with the cute girls at the cash register. And they flirted back. I even wound up dating a few of them. Now, when I approach the girl at the register, I notice on her face, a slight look of irritation, mixed with boredom--and the watch I’m wearing on my wrist is older than she is. While she absent-mindedly scans my groceries, she and the bag-boy plan their respective evenings, “Are you going to that party tonight? She’s so scummy, I don’t know what he sees in her.” I stand there before them, a 90-year-old man. Invariably, she’ll look at the pot roast, the carrots, the potatoes, and the green beans and say “Having pot roast tonight?” I wearily nod my head. And, since I’m almost always coming from work, and I have my lab coat on, she’ll also, just about always ask, “Are you a doctor?” To which I’ll reply with a straight face, “In my own mind, yes...I am a doctor.” She looks confused, and then begins to scan my groceries even faster…again, with an expression of irritation and boredom.
Once I’m home, there’s only one thing left to do. Bring all of the groceries into the house IN ONE TRIP. Like a human octopus, I always succeed. I wonder if anyone ever sees this amazing feat?
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
There are four words in the English language that will always send chills down a man’s spine. “We need to talk” is a close second, but I’m speaking of “Ready to go shopping?” It’s no wonder we men are so horrible at shopping. We hate it! How can we be good at something we hate? And, with the possible exception of Amsterdam’s Red Light District, men do NOT window-shop. We know exactly what we’re buying before we even enter the building.
They should really build a shopping mall just for men. A man’s shopping mall would have, maybe four stores: an all-occasion clothing store (no dressing rooms needed…guys don’t like trying things on), a magazine store that also sells beer and tobacco, a garden center that also sells tools, and a place to buy CD’s and DVD’s. It would be all on one level, and there would be no Food Court. A man doesn’t go to a mall to eat. Unlike modern malls, which smell like a mix of chocolate-chip cookies and body lotion, a man’s mall would have the earthy aroma of cedar wood. And if some enterprising hair cutter wanted to make a decent living, he’d set up a chair in the middle of the man’s mall so the guys could duck in for a quick trim. Men detest endless, meaningless blather by an overly-coiffed hairstylist in a salon. Just give us an easy in and an easy out. Beautiful.
There would also be no Victoria’s Secret at a man’s mall. This is not because he doesn’t love what they sell…he does. Most men have been in a Victoria’s Secret, despite looking about as comfortable as a calf at a branding. They go in there with the idea of buying something for their ladies that THEY would like to see them wear…and there’s precious little fabric involved. In fact, the whole crotch area may be missing. It’s a tricky balancing act for a man to present his Victoria’s Secret gift to the woman in his life, state his undying love and respect for her…and then ask her to dress like a hooker. No, leave the shopping to the woman. The malls are made for them, and they know what they’re doing.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
My father’s genes cursed me. My dad couldn’t even operate a screwdriver and he would hire out every household job, no matter how small. I don’t think I ever saw him fix anything. He was a pro fisherman and an expert on citrus fruit but, when it came to things mechanical, he was absolutely helpless. I’m not THAT bad. Or am I? The male ego is a strange thing.
I remember the time I decided I would put dimmer switches on every light switch in the house. I read all I could find on this wretched procedure, gathered my tools, and charted a course toward my destiny; on this day, I would be a handyman. Someone had advised me to cut the power off to the area in which I was to be working. After trying to decipher the scheme on the breaker box, I decided to just black out the entire house. Laugh if you must.
I did a lot of fussing and fuming that day. And with the air-conditioner off, due to my self-imposed blackout, I lost almost 6 pounds in the process. But I got the job done and you would’ve thought I had done something truly special, the way I was proudly strutting around. We now had dimmer switches and it was a wonderful feeling.
Like most homeowners, I was always thrilled to save a few bucks by doing things myself and I eventually learned how to lay ceramic tile, replace faucets, and repair broken toilet mechanisms. But I always know that, when it comes to being a handyman, I am a phony. This is never more apparent than when I go to a Home Depot or other do-it-yourself superstore. You can’t fool the guys that work there. I’ll walk in all puffed up and try to fake my way through asking for the parts I need and, at the same time, I’ll try to discreetly draw out information from them about the job I’m doing without them catching on. But they know. “Do you need the half-locked crescent hasp?” “Are you going to be shimming the bizzenmane” “What kind of walls do you have?” I find myself withering under this onslaught of questioning. By the time I leave, I have been exposed. They know I am not one of them.
Just by virtue of my testosterone levels, I am supposed to know everything about cars. What I know about cars could be taught on a leisurely afternoon…a really short leisurely afternoon. I can take apart and repair a guitar. I can operate and troubleshoot a myriad of different types of high-tech medical equipment. But when it comes to taking my car in for repairs, I am at their mercy and the mechanics sense this the way a shark senses blood in the water. I stand at the counter, surrounded by stacks of new tires and posters of brake and suspension systems. This is not my world.
Of course, when it’s my turn, I try to tell the guy what I THINK is wrong with my car. He doesn’t hear a single word; “Are the keys in the car?” Swallowing hard, I trod back to the waiting room and I scan my surroundings. There is a small television playing The Price Is Right with Bob Barker. He hasn’t aged that much though his hair sure has grayed. There is a coffee pot with a stack of Styrofoam cups nearby. There are stacks of greasy old magazines. And there are other miserable guys like me… men who are cursed by their father’s genes and cannot fix their own car.
After awhile, the mechanic comes in the room and we all expectantly look up, each of us thinking he is The Chosen One. This time, I am The Chosen One but my hopes fall when I see the dour look on the mechanic’s face. He shakes his head as he talks. “Usually, a job like this is really simple, but your car is a ’98, and in that year…” I’m helpless and he knows it. I nod slowly as I give him permission to do whatever he’s decided to do to my car. I join my brothers by the coffee pot. The whole experience is not unlike a hospital waiting room.
Yes, I carry my father’s genes and there’s not much I can do about it. Oh, I’ll learn as much as I can along the way, but I know I’ll never be a real handyman. It’s a good thing too, because my kids have lost almost all of the few tools that I own.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
I don’t mind washing clothes. To me, it’s just another line item on the chore list. After all, it’s not like I’m rubbing them over rocks down by the river. My trusty washer and dryer shoulder the bulk of the load and I’ll admit it; without them, I’m Pigpen.
Recently, I was doing the laundry, and the unthinkable happened: my dryer stopped drying. Oh, it was spinning all right, but was not getting nearly hot enough. Aren’t these things supposed to be as dependable as the sun rising? As the grass growing? As Jehovah Witnesses ringing the doorbell during a really good game on TV? I hadn’t been to a Laundromat in many years, but, at that moment, it looked like that was my only option. I went ahead and washed the rest of my clothes, and placed them all—spin-dry wet--into big garbage bags. I grabbed a bunch of quarters out of the change jar and made my way to the Promised Land.
I was determined to make the best of it. Hey, at least my washing machine was still working! I lugged the heavy bags into the Laundromat, found some empty industrial-strength dryers and proceeded to load them with my wet, freshly washed clothes and towels. “What are you doing?” spoke a voice behind me. “What?” I said. “What are you doing?” the man repeated. “I’m going to dry my clothes. My dryer is broken.” The guy’s voice got louder, “You can’t just dry your clothes here without also washing them here!” I asked him why, and he proceeded to explain that it was against the rules; I had to also wash my clothes in order to use the Laundromat. To say that this irritated me would be a gross understatement. I made my case to him in the strongest terms possible but he wouldn’t budge. I could feel my face getting warmer. I vigorously put my wet clothes back into the bag, plainly aggravated, and made my way to a pay phone to call a few other Laundromats. It had obviously been four score and too many years since I’d enjoyed this lovely experience, because I found out that NONE of them would let me dry my clothes without also washing them there. Isn’t that something?
This was beginning to turn into a marathon so, against my better judgment, I walked over to a washing machine and began loading it with my sparkling-clean, wet clothing and towels. I looked over at the laundry guy. He looked like Douglas MacArthur at the surrender of Japan. I looked more like Napoleon at Waterloo.
While my clothes were enjoying their second bubbly bath of that day, I took stock of my surroundings; everyone there, including myself, was dressed like Tom Hanks in “Castaway.” More like Tom Hanks in “Castaway” at a leper colony. It wasn’t pretty. It also seemed like the chairs, magazines, table…EVERYthing, was all covered with a thin film of grime. I was pretty certain I’d be boiling myself when I got home.
There was a mother with four young children, all of them diagnosed, (by me, at no charge), with Attention Deficit Disorder. They ALL had ants in their pants. There was a young couple making out over by the dryers, sitting on the table where I would NOT be folding my clothes. There was a homeless-looking guy over in the corner in a chair, fast asleep. Even compared to us, he looked disheveled. I stepped outside for some air.
It’s at times like these, that you notice things in the community you’d never noticed before, despite having driven through the area hundreds, even thousands of times. I didn’t know there was a Big Lots across the street! When did they put that up? Wasn’t there a drive-in there before? I paced. And I paced some more. They say a watched pot never boils. That rule is universal and it now applied, in some weird way, to my Laundromat washing machine. Only fifteen minutes had passed.
I eventually made it through that trial and, in the process; I even burned my arm on the thousand-degree industrial dryer. I stuffed my cotton-dry clothing into the same garbage bags I brought them in and strode out, careful not to give General McArthur the satisfaction of even a passing glance.
A few days later, I would greet a very surprised but pleased dryer repairman with sweets and flowers.
D
return to the Goomee Chronicles
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